Within the Shadows (32 page)
Read Within the Shadows Online
Authors: Brandon Massey
He stood immobile. Wanting to run. Afraid to run.
She grasped his hands and pulled him closer to her. She wriggled her body against his, spun and bounced her hips against his crotch, every sensuous movement in sync with the pounding disco beat.
Like a robot, he started to dance—on sagging legs that threatened to drop him on his face at any second.
He watched her shiny mane, whipping across her back and neck. He wanted to grab her neck and choke the life out of her.
But he didn’t dare try it. It was as unthinkable as sticking his hand in a buzzing wasp nest.
The disc moved to the next track: “Super Freak,” by Rick James. He realized that she had put his old school party CD into the player.
He remembered that party, which he’d hosted at his house last New Year’s Eve. Carmen had dressed in a puffy Afro wig and corduroys; Eric had worn a polyester suit and platform shoes. It had been a great time.
Would he ever see his friends again?
Mika jumped around and gyrated, losing herself in the music. There was no doubt: the girl could jam. If he weren’t terrified of her, he would’ve been dancing as energetically as she was. But it took all his effort to move his limbs as woodenly as the Frankenstein monster.
They danced around the room. In his peripheral vision, he noted two objects: the small brass lamp that stood on a nearby end table, and the gun that lay at the foot of the steps, across the basement.
He didn’t need to ask Justice for advice. He knew what he was going to do.
When Mika whirled, putting her back to him, he grabbed the lamp and smashed it against her head.
On impact with Mika’s head, the lamp’s light bulb exploded.
Mika shrieked and fell.
Move, move, move.
He sprinted across the basement and plucked the gun off the floor. He glanced over his shoulder.
She was getting up. Her eyes blazed.
Hot breath whistling in and out of his mouth, he began to charge up the steps.
Something grabbed the waist of his jeans. Rudely jerked him backward.
He snagged the staircase railing just in time to prevent a backward fall down the steps.
Coldness lashed his hand, like a whip.
He yelped, lost his hold on the railing. He teetered, lost his balance, and bumped down the stairs, each thump sending a painful rattle through his tailbone. He tried to stick out his legs and arms to halt his tumble, but he couldn’t gain any leverage.
But he kept his grip on the gun, like a man lost at sea clutching a life raft.
When he hit the bottom of the staircase, Mika stomped toward him, arms swinging, eyes fierce.
At that instant, there was nothing tender and loving about her. She might have been a vengeful goddess, descended to earth to punish him for his transgressions.
He didn’t hesitate.
He aimed at her and pulled the trigger.
It was only a .38, but in the confines of the basement, the gun boomed like a cannon.
The bullet plowed into her chest. She screamed, staggered backward several feet and crashed to the floor.
He lowered the revolver. Warm, gritty smoke filled his nostrils.
He couldn’t believe that he’d shot her.
I had no choice. It was self-defense.
Still, his stomach quivered sourly.
The CD player moved to the next track: “You Dropped a Bomb on Me” by The Gapp Band.
He got to his feet. His tailbone ached, drew a hiss of pain from him.
The gun felt like a fifty-pound dumbbell in his hand.
He dreaded the next step, but it was inevitable: he had to call the police and report what had happened. And hope that they didn’t slap him with criminal charges.
Across the room, Mika stirred.
He’d plugged her square in her chest. A fatal shot.
But as he watched, the bullet pushed out of her gunshot wound and clinked to the floor, like a misshapen coin.
Oh, shit. That’s impossible.
She sat up. Her gaze drilled into him.
“I warned you about that gun, Andrew,” she said, her voice as clear as ever. “You’ve pissed me off now.”
He turned and ran.
He streaked up the stairs, leaping past two and three steps with each frantic stride.
Mika chased him.
He hit the top of the staircase and scrambled across the hall.
He had to get out of the house, as far away from her as possible.
He threw open the door to the garage, slammed it behind him, locked it. He mashed his fist into the button to raise the sectional door.
It began to rise, with infuriating slowness.
Come on, come on.
The trio of cats waited outside the garage. Screeching, they came after him.
Shit. Those damned things again. They were turned against him now, serving their angry mistress.
He bolted to his car. As he hustled behind the wheel and went to shut the door, one of the cats slipped inside. It leaped onto his lap and clawed at his face.
He raised his arm to protect himself. Claws ripped into his forearm. He screamed.
Remembering the gun in his hand, he hammered it against the feline’s head. The animal howled as something in its skull cracked. The cat slumped against his chest.
He grabbed it by the scruff of the neck and flung it to the floor.
The other felines pounced on the windshield. Hissing. Clawing at him through the glass. Fury boiled in their alien eyes.
Behind them, the door blew open.
Like a human tornado, Mika stormed into the garage.
He stabbed the key in the ignition and turned it so fast it was a wonder it didn’t break off in the casing.
The engine roared. He slammed the gearshift into reverse and jammed the accelerator. Tires squealed.
The cats jumped off the car.
Mika raced to the nose of the vehicle, bent, and snagged the bumper in both hands, like a weightlifter preparing to do a dead lift.
Halfway out the garage, the car rocked to a halt. The tires spun uselessly.
Face hovering above the hood, she grinned.
He pressed the gas pedal full to the floor. Acrid smoke plumed in the air as the tires screeched against the concrete.
But the car was stuck.
She was inhumanly strong.
Thinking fast, he switched gears, into drive.
The sudden change of direction propelled him forward quickly enough to cause whiplash.
The Mercedes plowed into Mika. She wailed in pain as the vehicle drove her against the wall. She flopped onto the hood, lifelessly.
He knew better than to assume she was dead.
He threw the car into reverse again and zoomed out of the garage. She dropped to the ground.
He reached the end of the driveway. He was so busy watching Mika that he almost ran over the mailbox.
She began to push herself up.
“Dammit, why won’t she die?” he said.
She raced out of the garage and chased after him. Her cats flanked her, eyes gleaming.
He barreled out of the driveway and shot down the road.
His neighbors had left the big blue BFI garbage bins standing on the curbs, to be emptied in the morning when the sanitary crews made their weekly rounds of the neighborhood. One of the cans careened toward him, like a giant pinball.
He whipped the steering wheel, narrowly avoiding a collision.
Mika was doing this. Trying to prevent him from getting away.
There seemed to be no limits to her powers.
Another garbage can hurtled toward him. He swerved, but the can thudded against the windshield and rocked the car, spilled trash across the hood.
He nailed the gas pedal to the floor.
Several garbage containers clustered across the street ahead, forming a wall.
He gritted his teeth and burst through the makeshift barrier, like a bowling ball knocking down pins. The bins tumbled end over end. Loose trash soared like confetti through the air.
Mika’s scream echoed in his ears. In the rearview mirror, he saw her standing in the middle of the road. Nowhere near dead or even injured.
Ahead of him, the street was clear. He kicked up his speed, slowed to veer around the corner. He left the subdivision.
He blew out a deep breath. He had been breathing so hard that his lungs hurt.
On the floor beside him, the cat’s tail danced like a cobra.
He had crushed the feline’s skull, but it wasn’t dead. Nothing surprised him anymore.
He lowered the window, grabbed the cat by the tail, and tossed the creature out into the night. It rolled across the pavement, yowling.
His hands shook on the steering wheel. So much emotion churned through him that he didn’t know whether to cry, or collapse. He felt like doing both.
Chapter 34
H
e drove to Carmen’s house. He didn’t know where else to go. Eric’s home, located in the same neighborhood as his, was off limits with Mika being in the vicinity. Going to the cops would be fruitless; ridiculously, they thought he and Mika were married, and they sure as hell wouldn’t buy his story of her getting up uninjured from a gunshot wound and lifting the front end of his car like some mythical Amazon woman. They’d probably throw him into a rubber room at the nearest psychiatric ward.
e drove to Carmen’s house. He didn’t know where else to go. Eric’s home, located in the same neighborhood as his, was off limits with Mika being in the vicinity. Going to the cops would be fruitless; ridiculously, they thought he and Mika were married, and they sure as hell wouldn’t buy his story of her getting up uninjured from a gunshot wound and lifting the front end of his car like some mythical Amazon woman. They’d probably throw him into a rubber room at the nearest psychiatric ward.
Thirty miles away in Marietta, Carmen was his best option. Only she would understand what he was going through.
“Drew, what’s wrong?” Carmen said at the door. “What happened?”
“Tell you . . . in a minute,” he said weakly. He plopped onto the sofa in the living room. “Got some water?”
She brought him a glass of water. He gulped half of it, then poured some on his hands and splashed it on his flushed, sweaty face.
Sitting beside him, she noticed the ragged scratch on his forearm, from the cat’s claws. Anxiety darkened her eyes. “Let me take care of that.”
As she cleaned and dressed his wound, he told her what had happened.
“Jesus,” she said. Eyes wide, she said it again. “Jesus.”
She offered to let him use her computer. She kept a Hewitt Packard laptop on a desk in her bedroom.
“I know you followed me here, Sammy,” he said. He accessed a word processing program. “I need your help. Badly.”
She watched over his shoulder as he typed: ARE YOU HERE, SAMMY?
They waited.
He had told Carmen his theory about the “sad place.” She agreed that he was probably right. But to prove his suspicion, he needed to talk to Sammy.
They waited.
“Please don’t be mad at me still.” He chewed on his knuckle.
On the screen, the cursor blinked. But no coolness manifested in the air, and they received no reply.
“Please, Sammy,” Carmen said. “We need you, honey.”
Sammy ignored them.
Andrew paced back and forth in Carmen’s kitchen. He was as fidgety as if he’d swallowed a handful of caffeine tablets and chased them with strong cups of coffee.
He had checked the front windows perhaps five times. He hadn’t seen any sign of Mika or her attack cats.
But she was out there. Most likely, she knew he was here, too. It was only a matter of time before she made her next move.
While he paced, Carmen cooked a quick meal of angel hair pasta, marinara sauce, and ground turkey.
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